The Reminiscences of an Irish Land Agent Part 20

He allowed a curate fifty pounds a year to do the joint duties, and I hardly think the man was worth the money. He subsequently obtained a Government living and was in the habit of asking his congregation, as they went into church, whether they wanted a sermon or not. The general concensus of opinion was a polite negative--to the relief of all parties.

The method of electing a vicar in Ireland since the Disestablishment is both sensible and practical.

Three parish nominators, one lay diocesan nominator, two clerical diocesan nominators, and the bishop, between them, choose the new inc.u.mbent. By the const.i.tution of this Court of Election, it is certain that no one will be appointed to whom the parish objects, whilst if the parish desires the nomination of an incompetent man, that is checked by the diocesan voters in conjunction with the bishop.

In fact it is an admirable system, far better than the patronage plan still rampant in England.

The Irish bishops are also chosen by nominators drawn from the clergy and laity of the diocese, provided a two-thirds majority be obtained for any one candidate. If not, the Irish bench of bishops jointly selects the new wearer of lawn sleeves.

This, again, works with perfect smoothness and never arouses the ill-feeling aroused by the selections nominally made by the Prime Minister. To-day the _Foundations of Belief_ may not be an essay which causes confidence in the ability of the author to pick the best bishops, and all the much-vaunted religious convictions of Mr. Gladstone did not make his nominations to the Episcopacy particularly successful. It is now no secret that Lord Cairns used to choose bishops for Disraeli and that Lord Shaftesbury often was consulted by Prime Ministers who knew more about sport than clericalism.

So far as I can recollect, among all the Irish clergy I have met not one was an Englishman, though there are plenty of Irish in the English Established Church.

All the Disestablished Church of Ireland is exceedingly anti-ritualistic.

'I do not want Mock-Turtle, when I am so near real Turtle,' said Sir George Shiel, when asked to visit St. Alban's, Holborn, one of the Ritualistic temples--an observation which represents the feeling animating clergy and laity in Ireland, though they are none the better pleased that out of the funds of the Disestablishment, Maynooth should have received a capitalised sum equal to the previous annual grant from Government.

And now for just a few clerical tales.

A man was dying and the priest was with him.

'Ah, Father Philip,' said the poor fellow, 'I am sure the likes of you would never be deceiving a poor man and him on his deathbed. Tell me straight, is my soul all right?'

'It is, my son, and in a very short time you'll be in the company of the Blessed Saints.'

'In that case, Father, I'll tell the devil he may just kiss my toe and bad luck to him for all the trouble I have had to get out of his clutches,' and the priest noticed his last sigh was one of complete satisfaction--no doubt antic.i.p.atory.

Purgatory forms the foundation of many stories.

A certain very poor widow was paying the priest money for the soul of her son, who was killed in a faction fight.

'And it's more ma.s.ses you must have Mrs. Murphy, for Paddy has only got his red hair out of purgatory.'

Later, when she was asked for further contributions:--

'It's his mouth which is out now, and he sends his mother on earth messages to have prayers said to get him to heaven.'

A third time did Widow Murphy give the priest what she could not in the least afford.

Yet again he reported progress.

'Now you must make a great effort, for his head and shoulders are out of purgatory.'

'Then it's devil another penny of mine will go for ma.s.ses, for if my Pat has his head and shoulders out, I can safely reckon he'll soon wriggle himself away entirely, G.o.d bless the poor darling.'

Another purgatory tale, this time concerning Father Batt.

A fellow-priest came to see him, and over a friendly gla.s.s:--

'And what's the news?' asked Father Batt.

'None that I know on earth, but I do hear tell that the floor of purgatory has given way and all the inhabitants have fallen into h.e.l.l.'

'Oh, the poor Protestants, that will be all crushed by the weight atop of them,' was Father Batt's rejoinder.

Few priests in Kerry have been better known or more beloved than he, almost the last of the old-fashioned school, and he was always warm friends with his Protestant colleague in Milltown, where he resided.

Father Batt invariably took a few tumblers of hot whisky punch after dinner, and having got ill was advised by the doctor to give it up and take to claret.

When the bishop met him some time later, he said:--

'Well, Father Batt, I am afraid you do not like claret so well as the whisky.'

'It's this way, my lord,' he replied. 'I don't object to the taste so much as I thought I should, but I find it very tedious.'

It is with some diffidence that I venture upon a convent story. To begin with, I am a Protestant, and secondly, in relation to one of these ladies' clubs under sacerdotal patronage I feel like Paul Pry, always apologetic when putting in an appearance.

Still, the tale is quite innocent and is absolutely true.

The convent is in Kerry and up to recently the order had been an enclosed one. But a papal edict arrived one day, bidding the nuns go out to teach, and to collect, as well as to relieve, the suffering in their own homes.

The Mother Superior was exceedingly wroth.

'What!' quoth she. 'Does the Holy Father want to be interfering with me after I have been within these walls for the last eight-and-twenty years? I am not going to begin tramping the roads at my time of life, not for the Holy Father himself, no, nor all the Cardinals too. A pretty state of things indeed. Why, he'll be telling me to ride a bicycle next!'

The county of Cork was at one time so notorious for cattle-stealing that a Roman Catholic bishop went down specially to admonish them.

When telling one parish priest to be firm with his congregation on the subject, the bishop observed:--

'Nothing is more clearly laid down in the Bible than that if a man has possession of another man's property he can never enter the kingdom of heaven.'

'The Saints preserve us,' exclaimed the priest; 'there'll be plenty of empty houses there.'

It is not uncommon for a priest to get a bit of truth by accident or by cunning from one of his flock.

The parish priest was congratulating a man who had married three wives upon getting a bit of money with each, and received this answer:--

'Well, your reverence, I did not do badly at all, but between the weddings and the funerals, your reverence took care it was not all clear profit.'

There is plenty of hard barter about the terms of these ceremonies, and on one occasion at Brosna, when the curate stood out for three pounds as his fee for performing the marriage service, the would-be bridegroom held out a thirty shilling note, saying:--

'Marry yourself to this, your reverence, and we'll be happy with your blessing.'

As the persuasive eloquence of another man could not abate the price which his priest demanded for a funeral, he blurted out:--

'Why, the blessed corpse in purgatory would shiver at the thought of costing so much to put away, and we but poor folk, with the pig that contrary we don't know whether the litter will survive.'

Here is a fish story connected with a member of my own family, Miss Clarissa Hussey, who was my aunt, and also a pious Roman Catholic. She used to hospitably entertain her confessor Father Tom, a priest with a keen appreciation of the good things of the table. Among his parishioners it was known that he indicated the value he put on the coming fare by the length of his preliminary grace.